Where the Heart Is
by smacky30
Summary: Written for the Gift Exchange/Secret Santa on cmrossiprentiss at LJ.  Emily doesn't like the idea of Dave spending Christmas alone, so she ditches her mother's party and surprises him.


Disclaimer: Not mine.

A/N: Many thanks to Mingsmommy and Losingntrnslatn for their beta work and their general awesomeness.

XXXXX

Running the flat iron over the last section of hair, Emily gives herself a critical once over. Her makeup is understated, the red silk wrap blouse and black velvet pants are elegant without a hint of flash. The diamonds sparkling at her ears and throat are simple enough to scream expensive. All in all, she looks like her mother's daughter; sleek and polished, and for just a second, she hates what she sees.

The girl in the mirror isn't her.

Not the real her. She is so much more. Then again, she admits to herself, so is Elizabeth. Sighing, she smoothes her hands over her hair one last time, then flicks off the light on her way out of the room.

XXXXX

"Hey, Daddy." Emily places a kiss on her father's cheek, drawing in his scent. Sandalwood aftershave and Chivas with a faint hint of cigar smoke; smells she long ago learned to associate with warmth and love and a faint sense of abandonment. "Where's Magda?"

"It's good to see you, too." He smiles down at her, his dark brown eyes, so much like her own, laughing.

Shaking off her melancholy, she shrugs out of her coat. "It _is_ good to see you," she smiles at her father. "How've you been?"

Taking her coat and purse, Edward Prentiss wraps warm fingers around her elbow and draws her into the foyer. "Magda is in the kitchen riding herd over the caterers. And you look beautiful, baby."

"Thank you." She allows herself to be led forward, every step drawing her nearer to being able to make her escape.

From the arch leading to the living room she can hear a quiet murmur of conversation. In her mind she can see them. Her uncles and aunts and cousins scattered around the expansive space, chatting politely about politics or sports or their latest real estate deal. Their perfect children will be playing quietly with one of the board games her mother keeps for these occasions. The whole thing makes her want to scream. Just once, she would love to see somebody lose control, spill something, break a knick-knack. Just once, she wants to know these people are actually human.

The force of that desire surprises her, and she once again tries to shake off the funk that's surrounding her. It's not that she doesn't care for her family; that she doesn't want to be with them. It's only that she wants to be somewhere else more.

Earlier in the week, when the team was getting ready to take off for the holidays, Rossi mentioned his intention to spend his Christmas holed up in his hunting cabin. He didn't seem bothered by the idea of being away from family and friends, but there was something in his eyes, a sadness he hid behind a quick quirk of his mouth and a well placed chuckle or two.

"Emily!" Elizabeth's well-modulated voice greets her as she passes through the archway. "Now that you're here, the party can start."

Knowing her mother the way she does, Emily is pretty sure that was a jibe about her timeliness couched in what could pass for a joke. There was a time when she would've let that get to her, when she would've let it burrow under her skin and take up residence there. That was a few years back. Now, she simply lets it roll off her like water off the back of one of Rossi's prized ducks.

Bending forward, she kisses the cheek Elizabeth presents to her and says, "If I'm the life of the party, this could be a very boring night."

"Nonsense." Elizabeth laughs and wraps her arm around Emily's. "Let's get you a drink. What would you like?"

"Red wine," Emily answers as her mother leads her toward the bar in the corner and her father disappears to hang up her coat and bag.

XXXXX

"Emily," Edward drops an arm around her shoulders and takes a sip from the tumbler of scotch in his hand. "Why are you here?"

She barks out a laugh. "What? Have you met my mother?"

"I have indeed." Chuckling, he gives her a quick hug and then drops his arm. "Look," he says, sobering, "I don't know much, but I do know when your heart is somewhere else."

She glances at him, looking for the tell-tale signs that he's had a little too much scotch, signs she remembers all too well from her childhood. But his eyes are clear and his face, while flushed, doesn't have that slackness it gets when he's intoxicated.

"I'm not drunk, Emily." If he were anyone else, she's sure he would've rolled his eyes.

Snorting out a laugh at the thought, she asks, "Then what are you talking about?"

He swirls the ice in his glass, the cubes clinking musically against the sides of the crystal tumbler. "You've been here two hours?" When she nods, he continues. "In that time, I've heard the name David Rossi more than I care to count."

Emily opens her mouth to stop him. She even manages to hold up a hand. But he ignores her. "The last time I talked about a woman that much, I married her."

"How'd that work out for you?" Emily snaps the question out before she stops to think about what she's saying. Instantly, she regrets the words, wishes she could take them back. "I'm sorry. That was…uncalled for."

She's kicking herself now. It's not a secret that her parents' marriage hasn't been perfect. Hell, most of the time it was like living in the middle of a Cold War. There was never screaming or yelling. But even that would've been preferable to the interminable silences, to the long evenings of too much whiskey and too little conversation.

"Em." He's shaking his head. "You're not wrong. But remember this… no matter what, I have always loved your mother. And I like to think she has always loved me."

There's a lump in her throat now. This isn't the kind of thing either of her parents usually talks about. Actually, it's the first time in her life she can remember her father ever saying those words to her. Still, this has _nothing_ to do with David Rossi.

"Daddy." She lays a hand on his arm.

"No, let me finish." He smiles down at her, and if his eyes are a little damp and his voice is a tiny bit hoarse neither of them will mention it. "I may not always tell you what I think or how I feel. I've always been of the mind that you had to make your own choices, your own decisions. But it's obvious you have feelings for this man. Don't let time run out."

Stunned doesn't begin to describe how she feels. It's almost like she's entered some alternate universe where everything she thought she knew no longer exists.

"You can't get her to leave?" Elizabeth slips her arm around Edward's waist; the other arm is draped with Emily's coat and purse. "Usually I complain about her job or her clothes. That seems to work."

Gaping. Emily knows she's gaping. She can feel her mouth hanging open and her eyes seem to be frozen as wide open as possible. She's never, not once, been speechless with her mother. She has, at times, chosen to be silent. But it's never been for lack of words. Until now.

Reaching out, Elizabeth taps her underneath the chin. "Close your mouth, dear. It's so unattractive."

She might be upset at her mother's words if it weren't for the teasing glint in her eyes and the smile on her face.

Emily barks out a laugh. "Mother?"

"Don't sound so surprised." Elizabeth plucks the glass of water from Emily's grasp with one hand and, with the other, gives her the coat and bag. "I raised you to go after what you want. That includes a man who is totally inappropriate, as well."

"But I…" Emily clears her throat. "But he…" She shrugs helplessly. "We are _friends_."

Stepping forward, Elizabeth brushes at Emily's shoulder and tucks her hair behind her ear. Her voice as haughty as Emily has ever heard, she says, "You should've worn the green satin, Emily. Red is so vulgar."

Emily slides her eyes over her mother's slender form, clad in red hammered satin. "That would be more convincing if you weren't wearing that dress."

"For God's sake, Em. Will you just go?" Edward slips his arms around both women, his big hands settling on their shoulders. With gentle pressure he guides them to the door. Passing his glass to Elizabeth, he helps Emily into her coat, opens the door and all but shoves her outside. "Merry Christmas, baby." He presses a kiss to her cheek.

Completely flabbergasted, Emily takes her purse from her father's hand. She makes a little motion with her shoulders, half shrug and half twitch. "Merry Christmas," she whispers as they close the door behind her.

XXXXX

For once, the weatherman had been right when he promised snow. The first fat white flakes are falling as Emily takes the exit onto I-66 and heads west. It isn't often, living in what amounts to Northern Virginia, that she sees a white Christmas, and the prospect of waking up on Christmas morning to snow covered streets and sidewalks makes her unreasonably happy. It's a good thing she has something to be happy about, because it's helping balance out the nerves singing along under her skin.

When she left home, having stopped there after leaving her parents' house, the radio had been playing Christmas music interspersed with updates from Santa Tracker. At first she tried singing along to distract herself from all the noise in her head. But the music couldn't really compete with the voice telling her to turn around and go home. Finally, she switched the radio off and listened to the silence. Now, there is nothing but the quiet swish of her tires against the pavement as she heads toward the Shenandoah Valley and Rossi's cabin.

_What the hell are you doing?_ That damned voice, the one she normally calls reason, asks again. _Go home, _it says._ Go to bed, _it urges._ Lie to your parents. Not like it would be the first time, _the sing-song cadence of that last part just pisses her shakes her head. "Shut up," she hisses into the quiet. "_He_ kissed _me_, so just shut up."

She still thinks it was a moment of semi-drunken delirium, but that doesn't mean it didn't happen, even if they've never spoken of it again.

Back in June, Rossi invited the team out to his cabin for a cookout. When he'd issued the invitation, Emily thought he was joking. Not that she considered him a hermit, but he had never seemed like someone who wanted a bunch of people invading his space. Honestly, she couldn't really imagine him grilling hot dogs and hamburgers like a regular guy. He had always seemed so above that type of thing. So, if for no other reason than a chance to see him man a grill, she made the trek out to Woodstock.

XXXXX

Almost everybody had gone home, and silence, the kind only found far away from the rush of the city, had descended. Hotch and Jessica had pitched a tent down by the pond so that Henry and Jack could have the experience of camping out, and JJ and Will could have some time alone. Mudgie, having spent his day playing chase with two very active boys, was passed out in his bed by the fireplace. Reid had loaded his car with Morgan, Garcia and Kevin, and puttered away toward what Morgan kept referring to as civilization. That left just Emily and Rossi sitting on the porch, sharing a tiny wicker settee, staring out at the moonlight rippling on the water of the pond.

"It was a really good day." Emily took a sip from her beer and let her head drop back. "Thanks for having us all out here."

"I'm glad you came." He squinted down at his glass, swirling the ice around the way her father always did. "All of you."

The last seemed like an afterthought, and she wondered if it really was. Then the idea drifted away on a tide of too much beer and food and sun. The night was cool, and when she shivered, Dave slipped an arm around her shoulders. And it felt so right, so natural to be sitting there on his porch with the moonlight silvering the grass and gilding the pond.

Sighing at his warmth, she snuggled a little closer. Her thigh pressed along the length of his, and her shoulder found a place just under his arm. "It's so beautiful here."

"You're beautiful," he murmured, his fingers finding the ends of her hair.

She grinned up at him, her head rolling back along his biceps until she could see his eyes. "David Rossi, are you hitting on me?"

He was deliberate, giving her more than enough time to protest. He set his glass on the table beside him with a quiet thunk, took her beer and did the same with it, then, just when she thought she'd crawl out of her skin, he cupped her cheek and kissed her.

Dave wasn't overbearing, neither was he tentative. Covering her mouth with his, he took his time and kissed her as thoroughly as she'd ever been kissed in her life.

His palm was cool from holding his glass, but his mouth was like fire, melting her then molding her into something beyond just Emily. It seemed silly, even then, even in her semi-inebriated state, to think of a kiss as life altering. But for her it was. The way his mustache tickled her cheek, the way his mouth fit against hers, the way his hand cradled the back of her head; every single thing was new and different and exactly right.

Without any effort, his tongue was in her mouth, stroking against her own, and the hand that had been cupping her cheek was cupping her breast, his thumb stroking her nipple through her clothes. She was completely lost in him, in the taste and smell and heat of him.

Somewhere under the haze of alcohol and lust, she knew they should stop. But her body was totally overruling her common sense. How could it not? His hair was soft when she ran her fingers through it. His heart was pounding underneath her palm. And she was so turned on, so hot for him, that she would've done anything, given anything to feel him inside her.

Dave's fingers were pushing under the hem of her shirt, slipping over her stomach, when Jessica's gasp broke them apart.

"I'm so sorry." The blond fumbled the flashlight she was carrying and the beam bounced wildly around the porch. "The lights were on and I thought everybody was gone and I needed to use the bathroom and…oh God, I'm so sorry."

The next few minutes passed in a blur of embarrassed disappointment. Emily tried to stumble through an explanation while Jessica tried to escape as quickly as possible and Mudgie, awakened by all the excitement, ran in circles and barked at them all.

When they were alone again, Emily sank down on the couch in the living area and buried her face in her hands. "She's gonna tell Hotch," she moaned and looked up at him.

Dave settled down beside her and ran his hands through his hair. "Let me worry about Hotch."

XXXXX

Shaking her head to clear it of the memory of the argument that followed, Emily suddenly realizes the snow is much heavier now than when she exited the highway. The sidewalks and blacktop are dusted with white powder, and the wind is blowing it in swirls across the street. Stopping for a red light, she looks around. The town seems abandoned, all the stores dark. But it's late on Christmas Eve and, as the story goes, not a creature is stirring.

She follows the street to the outskirts of town and as she passes McDonald's even its bright yellow arches go dim. Streetlights grow farther apart and then disappear altogether after a couple of miles. The snow is falling faster, the flakes smaller, spitting against the windshield. Her wipers are slapping back and forth, leaving streaks on the glass, and she finds herself squinting against the swirling whiteness outside. The annoying voice of her GPS unit tells her to prepare to turn. Leaning forward, Emily searches for the road that should be coming up.

Once she turns off, the road becomes narrower and bumpier, winding up into the mountains. She's close now, and her heart is slamming around in her chest like it's trying to jump right out of her body. And the damned voice in her head is back, asking her if she's sure.

Dave's mailbox rises up out of the darkness on her right, snow standing thick on its upper curve. Just beyond it is the driveway. She turns in and stops. The gravel track rises and curves and she can't see the cabin from where she is, but she knows it's up there, can smell smoke from the fireplace. Sitting there, wipers working double time, heat pouring from the vents onto her feet, car engine silent, the entire world silent, she sucks in a deep breath and lets it out slowly.

"Just do it," she mumbles. "Just go up there."

Taking her foot off the brake, she presses the gas and the car begins to climb.

Calling the place rustic might be too kind. Even in the dark it looks like somewhere you might find Grizzly Adams more than a place David Rossi would choose to spend a night. But the tin roof is starting to disappear under a layer of snow and there's smoke pouring from the stone chimney and warm yellow light spilling from the windows, and she hasn't seen anything so welcoming in a long time.

By the time she douses her headlights and cuts the engine the back door is open and Dave is peering out through the screen. Grabbing her purse and the hastily wrapped package on the passenger's seat, she climbs out. The wind blows her coat open, and she grabs for the edges, tugging it closed.

"Prentiss?" Dave's voice floats out of the cabin. "Emily?" He pushes the screen open and Mudgie rushes out to greet her, nearly knocking her down in his excitement. "Mudgie! Heel!" Reluctantly, the dog trots over to stand at Dave's side, his entire body quivering with the need to fling himself at Emily again.

"Hi." She gives him a little wave and slams the car door.

He tilts his head just the slightest bit, and raises an eyebrow. "What are you doing here?"

She tries to read him then, to tell if he's happy to see her or not. But he's better at hiding things than everybody, except Hotch. So, she closes the distance between them. "I brought your Christmas present."

The snow is landing in his hair and along the shoulders of his Cubs sweatshirt, and she wants to touch him. It's an ache in the center of her, a tingle in her fingertips. His eyes are on hers, holding her gaze, searching and probing. Finally, when the silence is edging toward uncomfortable, his lips tip up in that half smile that is totally his.

"Come inside where it's warm." He holds a hand out, and shifting her packages, she slips hers into it.

XXXXX

Sipping from the plastic tumbler, Dave leans back against the couch and sighs. "Thank you." He holds the glass up to the light. "Woodford Reserve is a very nice whiskey."

Emily turns to face him from her place by the bookcase and raises her glass in a toast. "My pleasure."

She is scanning his meager collection of books and music and movies while Mudgie follows her every step. The silence is broken only by the soft strains of Christmas music coming from a tiny cd player on the kitchen counter. The book he had been reading is upside down beside his chair she sees as she wanders by.

"You like Robert Parker's writing?" Emily realizes how inane that sounds as soon as she said it.

"Spenser is a man's man. What's not to like?" He's watching her, his eyes full of questions, his mouth turned up in a soft smile. "Tell me why you're really here."

Spinning away from him, taking another fortifying sip from her glass, Emily shrugs. "I just hated to think of you spending Christmas alone."

"What if I'm not?"

"Oh God," she turns to face him so fast that she stumbles a little, a sick feeling settling in the pit of her stomach. "Oh, Rossi, I'm so sorry. I'll…I'll just get my things and go." She's moving across the tiny room, grabbing her coat and purse from the table when his hands land on her shoulders.

"Emily." He squeezes and lets out a chuckle. "Stop. I was kidding."

"This was a really bad idea. I should go." Her actions belying her words, she lets the coat and purse drop back to the table, bracing her hands against the pitted wood surface.

"What was a bad idea?" His voice is soft, coaxing, and he's so close she can feel his heat. "Come on, Emily. Tell me." His breath moves the hair over her ear, and she has to work hard to suppress the shudder that moves through her.

She shakes her head. "Coming here."

Emily picks up her glass. Draining the last of the amber liquid, the ice thumping against her lips, she pulls away from him and moves the few feet into the kitchen area. She leans against the counter and watches him watching her. "It was a really big mistake," she mumbles. "Can we just pretend this never happened?"

He sighs then, and if she didn't know better she'd say he sounds sad. "If that's what you want."

That isn't what she wants.

Not at all.

What she wants is standing there watching her with the warmest brown eyes she's ever seen. There's no trace of amusement in them now. Just something that looks a whole lot like desire. And she realizes that maybe she's a lot more like her uptight family than she wants to admit. Maybe she's the one who needs to break something or spill something or reach out and take a chance. Maybe she's the one who needs to prove she's human.

He must see it in her face, in the angle of her body, in the way her gaze jerks to his mouth and back to his eyes, because he moves a step closer. One hand hangs loosely at his side, his glass dangling from his fingers, the picture of nonchalance. But the fingers of his other hand flex, curling and uncurling, and she remembers the feel of his skin on hers, the heat of his palm on her breast. The memory hits her low in her belly and her thighs tighten as heat flows along her veins.

_It's now or never, _the voice whispers. This time she doesn't bother telling it to shut up. This time she listens.

"It isn't." She twists and places her glass in the sink with a quiet thunk. "What I want." Pushing off the counter, she takes his glass and places it in the sink beside her own. "Not even a little bit."

He's smiling when she kisses him. His eyes stay locked on her until, at the last possible second, she lets hers drift closed in anticipation. The taste of him, bourbon and coffee and, maybe, a hint of cigar smoke, floods through her, and his mouth feels just like she remembers.

She groans and he answers her with one of his own. Then his arms are around her, his hands sliding over her back, pulling her close.

They stand there for a long time, in what passes for a kitchen, kissing and touching. Each of them making sure.

Finally, when Emily is positive she's going to cry if she can't feel him moving inside her, he takes her hand and leads her to bed.

XXXXX

The sheet is around her waist, her breasts pressed against his side as his fingers trail up and down her back. Her head is propped on the back of her hand, the hand resting on Dave's chest. The air smells of sweat and sex, and she can feel the steady thump of his heart. "I didn't buy you bourbon for Christmas," the words seem to spill out on their own, slipping between her lips like water through a straw.

"Oh, really?" His question rumbles up through her hand, sleepy and content and just a little curious.

"Yeah, I bought it back in the summer." Her mouth twitches in a self-conscious grin. "After I was here."

She raises her head, watching his face. And she sees the exact moment he puts it together. His eyebrows go up and his chin drops just the tiniest bit, surprise flickering in his eyes. "Really?" He draws the word out, and she can't tell what he means and that has nerves jangling in her belly. "Why?"

"Why?" God, does he really need her to spell it out? He's not stupid; he has to know why she bought the damned liquor. Sucking in a deep breath, she says, "Because I thought you might decide to...stop by."

"As mad as you were that night?" He chuckles, his eyes sparkling with laughter. "I figured you might do me bodily harm if I showed up at your place."

Emily rolls to her side, propping her head up on her arm so she can look down at him. Oddly, she's not self-conscious at all. There's a comfort in being with him she's never known with another man. Actually, she delights in the way his eyes darken and his lids grow heavy at the sight of her bare breasts, the way his hand brushes over her nipple with something that feels a lot like reverence.

"I was a little upset," she allows, swallowing back a moan. Sliding her hand over his chest, she feathers her fingers through the sparse hair there.

"I practically had to hog-tie you to get you to stay here." He reaches up and traces a finger along her collar bone. "Not the way I wanted to get you into my bed."

"Not the way I wanted to be there either."

He tugs her down and kisses her, and her whole body goes liquid, melting against his. The way he touches her, the way he holds her speaks of a possessiveness she wouldn't tolerate from anybody else. But with Dave it just feels…right. He rolls them over, settling himself between her thighs.

"Merry Christmas, Emily." He smiles down at her, and she can see the future shining in his eyes.

"Merry Christmas," she murmurs against his lips.


End file.
